Down the long and silent street, The dawn, with silver-sandaled feet, Crept like a frightened girl.
The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?
And now, I am dying beyond my means. (Said while sipping champagne on his deathbed.)
Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.
Only love can keep anyone alive.
At twilight, nature is not without loveliness, though perhaps its chief use is to illustrate quotations from the poets.